“What do cicadas sound like?” asks sixteen-year-old Georgia, who wasn’t born last time they came.
Everyone’s answer is different.
“Like the song of an ice cream truck,” remembers twenty-year-old brother Bob.
“Like the creak of a swinging hammock,” claims Dad, already planning where to hang theirs.
“Like the clink of ice in fresh lemonade, served under the shadiest tree,” smiles Mom, making a grocery list.
“Like letting go of the rope swing and splashing into the river,” exclaims Uncle Terry, wondering if he’s too old now for that adventure.
“Like glorious summer,” pronounces Grandpa, a man of few words.